Unsurprisingly, Barnaby’s confession took a long while. When he had finished, Father Henry spoke the words of absolution, and began the ritual annointing of eyelids, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, feet, asking the Lord to forgive any evil done with each member. Frevisse watched Meg rather than the priest, saw how she forgot her body’s cold in wonder at the magic, as a man known to be sinful was cleansed of all blame and made over fresh, worthy to share eternal bliss with God. There were fresh tears on Meg’s cheeks. She stepped out of Dame Claire’s embrace without hesitating when Father Henry beckoned and there was something like enthusiasm in her voice when they said a paternoster together.
The priest ended the rite by giving Barnaby the viaticum-food for the journey-a thin wafer of consecrated bread that ought to have melted on the tongue, though Barnaby made an eye-bulging struggle of getting it down. When he was finished, Father Henry gathered up the articles of his sacred work and blessed them all.
When he was gone. Dame Claire took his place, to tend to Barnaby’s body now that his soul was seen to. Dame Frevisse stayed in case her help was needed, doubting how much use Meg might be if her husband became desperate with pain. But Barnaby bore the infirmarian’s handling with set-jawed patience. He grunted with pain as she felt along his bruised side and chest, and went white around the mouth when she handled his hand, but he held back from groaning or cursing.
When Dame Claire had finished and Barnaby was lying limp and closed-eyed, she mixed a strong sleeping powder into the wine she had brought. Meg sidled close to Frevisse and whispered, “What the priest did-Barnaby’s all blessed now, his sins all forgiven and gone? He’s sure of Heaven?”
“As sure as any man can be,” Frevisse assured her. “And until he sins again.”
Meg’s cheeks darkened with a faint blush and her eyes dropped. “There’s blessing indeed,” she murmured.
Dame Claire stood up from pouring the medicine into Barnaby’s willing mouth. “You’ll soon be feeling very little of the pain and then you’ll fall to sleep,” she told him. “Sleep is best for you now. I’ll have some broth sent from the kitchen for you against your wakening.” She turned to Meg. “Keep him warm. If he’s still awake when the broth comes, feed him only a little at a time. I doubt there’ll be trouble keeping him quiet.”
She moved away to put her things back in their box. Meg went almost timidly to kneel beside her husband, wiping the last of her tears away, and said, “You’re all blessed, Barnaby. The lady said so. Better even than when you were born. All your sins are gone.”
His eyes closed, his face gray, Barnaby said, “I’m still hurting. She said it would stop soon but I’m still hurting.”
“She said it would take a while, Barnaby. Just a little while.”
He grunted without moving and asked, “I don’t remember what happened. Was I fighting again? Was that it?”
Hesitantly Meg said, “You crashed Gilbey Dunn’s cart into a ditch and wrecked it. Some travelers found you and brought you here.”
Barnaby made a small moan. He opened his eyes and looked vaguely at the ceiling. “Where am I?”
“The priory, remember? St. Frideswide’s. They brought you here and the nuns are letting you stay until you’re well enough to be moved.”
He grunted that he understood and shut his eyes again.
With great softness and, Frevisse suspected, some courage, Meg leaned nearer to him and asked, “Do you remember what happened that made you crash? Do you remember that?”
At first Frevisse thought he was not going to answer, that Dame Claire’s sleeping draught was working more quickly than usual. But he finally said, “I was coming home. From Lord Lovel’s…”
His voice trailed off but his breathing told that he was still conscious. Meg waited but when he did not go on, she asked “Did you deliver the wine?”
Barnaby grunted, drew a tentatively deep breath, and probably found it did not hurt. Dame Claire’s potion had begun to work against the pain, and with a little more sense he said, “Just like I was told, and never spilled a drop from Oxford to his lordship’s hall. Never a stave sprung nor a drop spilled.” He grimaced-or maybe he meant it for a smile around the pain-and opened his eyes to Meg’s anxious face. “They had wine at the manor, though. Not pot-brewed ale but real wine, like I’d never had before, a great bowl of it in the hall, for Christmas and all. I sang for them, Lord Lovel and his lady…”
“Not that song,” Meg said, flushing with anxiety and shame.
Rough humor tugged at the corners of Barnaby’s mouth. “Nay, not that one. The other one. About King Henry that was, God keep him, and his Agincourt battle…”
His voice caught as he fought an urge to cough.
Meg touched his shoulder. “Don’t talk.”
“Nay.” he said. “It’s working, the medicine. There’s not so much hurting. And before I forget-” He fumbled his unhurt hand under the blankets, groping for something at his waist that was not there.
Frevisse had stayed near, knowing someone should watch until he was safely into sleep. Now she said, “Here,” guessing, and reached toward the ragged pile of his belongings they had stripped from his body but not bothered with since. “Your pouch?” she asked, surprised by its weight as she held it out.
Barnaby waved it toward his wife. “For you,” he croaked. “Said I’d bring you something. See?”
There was a small-boy triumph in his voice and glimmering twitch of a smile on his pain-grayed face. But with more wariness than pleasure, Meg took the pouch and pulled its drawstrings open, felt inside, and cautiously drew out what had weighed so much.
In the hall’s shadowed light, the roundness that Meg held in her hand glowed as richly as a sunset. But a sunset could never be held in anyone’s hands, and Frevisse watched Meg’s wariness turn to wonder. Plainly she had never seen such a thing, and with a delicate grace that surprised Frevisse, she bent her head and smelled of it, then looked at Barnaby with wonder still in her face and asked, “What is it?”
“A norange,” Barnaby said, proud of his knowledge. “There was a whole big bowl of them, big as the bowl of wine, nearly, there on Lord Lovel’s high table, right in front of him and his lady. Christmas Day the hall was open to all the servants and guests or chance travelers. And food? Food like you never saw and more than comes my way from one start of winter to the next. And drink.” The drug was working in him now, or he had forgotten his hurt in the excitement of his tale.
“Good wine, with spices in it, and hardly a let to anyone taking a taste. The steward saw me reach out a hand and nodded and smiled, like I was a proper guest. I’ll travel the breadth of England if that steward should ask me, and never a grumble about the going. I had a taste and another, and that’s when I sang my song, the one that’s fit for noble folk. And they liked it, Meg! They liked it and Lady Lovel herself said it was worth something and tossed me the norange and I saved it for you. Brought it home for you for a Christmas fairing. You’ve never had the like, now have you?”
Meg, the orange still cupped in her hands and held close to her breast, smiled a slow, spreading smile so clear and whole with pleasure that she looked years younger, and Frevisse for the first time wondered what age she really was.
“Barnaby light, Barnaby bright,” she crooned softly. “Longest day and the shortest night.” The old rhyme for St. Barnabas’s Day that came near midsummer; a rhyme with a special meaning, Frevisse guessed, because a smile as whole as Meg’s own pulled at the deep-weathered lines of Barnaby’s face.